was slicked down, you
want to say to the wind, Stop, that’s
the leader’s hair, but the wind keeps lifting it
and separating the thin strands and
fanning it out like a weed-head in the air.
His brows look bright in the airport glare,
his eyes are crinkled up against the sun, you
want to say to his eyes, Stop, you are
the leader’s eyes, close yourselves, but they are
on his side, no part of his body
can turn against him. His thumbnail is long and
curved—it will not slit his throat for the
sake of the million children; his feet in their
polished shoes won’t walk him into the
propeller and end the war. His heart won’t
cease to beat, even if it knows
whose heart it is—it has no loyalty to
other hearts, it has no future outside his body.
And you can’t suddenly tell his mind that it is
his mind, get out while it can,
it already knows that it’s his mind—
much of its space is occupied with the
plans for the marble memorial statues
when he dies of old age. They’ll place one
in every capital city of his nation
around the world—Lagos, Beijing,
São Paolo, New York, London, Baghdad,
Sydney, Paris, Jerusalem,
a giant statue of him, Friend to the Children
of the leader’s country—
which will mean all children, then,
all those living.
8. The Smile
The man hunched on the ground, holding
the arm of the corpse, is smiling. And the man
bending over, stabbing the chest,
a look of pleasant exertion on his face,
is smiling. The man lying on the ground is
staring up, shirt splattered black
like splashes around a well where the bucket has been
dipped and dipped. They hold his wrists, as if
displaying his span, a large bird
slung from its heavy wing tips,
and the handsome young man goes on stabbing
and smiling, and the other sits on the ground
holding the dead arm like a leash, smiling.
9. Free Shoes
The pairs of shoes stand in rows,
polished and jet, like coffins for small pets,
lined with off-white. Evacuated children
sit in rows eyeing the pairs,
child after child after child, no parents
anywhere near. When it’s their turn,
they get a pair of new shoes
and the old ones are taken away.
Of course it is kind of the nice people
to give them the shoes. Of course it is better
to be here in the country, not there where the buildings
explode and hurl down pieces of children.
Of course, of course. This life that has been
given them like a task! This life, this
black bright narrow unbroken-in shoe.
10. The Body-Sniffers
Eventually, they found the people
who could tell by the smell whether or not
someone was alive in the ruins. They would crouch,
move their heads above holes in the rubble,
and after a while they’d say Yes, there is something,
someone. They’d inhale some more,
lying flat on the planks, the odor
trickling up, into their brains, and
sometimes they’d say, It’s too late, here.
Other times the blood was still flowing and
then the large beams would be hoisted, the
pipes cut, the bricks lifted,
foot by foot they’d go down and the sniffer would
say, Keep going, someone’s there! They’d dig day and
night without sleep to see the eyelids
flutter, to smell the fresh, dissolved salt.
11. His Crew
Burning, he kept the plane up
long enough for the crew to jump. He could
feel the thrust down, and the lift,
each time one of them leapt, full-term, the
parachutes unfolding and glistening, little
sacs of afterbirth. They drifted toward
what could be long lives, his fist
seared to the stick. When he’d felt all six
leave him, he put the nose down
and saw the earth coming up toward him,
green as a great basin of water
being lifted to his face.
12. The Body
The body lies, dropped down on the stones,
pieces of plastic and steel in it, it is
not breathing, it cannot make its
heart pump no matter how hard it tries.
It tries to move its left hand,
its left foot—its lips, tongue,
it cannot cry, it cannot feel,
the lovely one is gone,
want to say to the wind, Stop, that’s
the leader’s hair, but the wind keeps lifting it
and separating the thin strands and
fanning it out like a weed-head in the air.
His brows look bright in the airport glare,
his eyes are crinkled up against the sun, you
want to say to his eyes, Stop, you are
the leader’s eyes, close yourselves, but they are
on his side, no part of his body
can turn against him. His thumbnail is long and
curved—it will not slit his throat for the
sake of the million children; his feet in their
polished shoes won’t walk him into the
propeller and end the war. His heart won’t
cease to beat, even if it knows
whose heart it is—it has no loyalty to
other hearts, it has no future outside his body.
And you can’t suddenly tell his mind that it is
his mind, get out while it can,
it already knows that it’s his mind—
much of its space is occupied with the
plans for the marble memorial statues
when he dies of old age. They’ll place one
in every capital city of his nation
around the world—Lagos, Beijing,
São Paolo, New York, London, Baghdad,
Sydney, Paris, Jerusalem,
a giant statue of him, Friend to the Children
of the leader’s country—
which will mean all children, then,
all those living.
8. The Smile
The man hunched on the ground, holding
the arm of the corpse, is smiling. And the man
bending over, stabbing the chest,
a look of pleasant exertion on his face,
is smiling. The man lying on the ground is
staring up, shirt splattered black
like splashes around a well where the bucket has been
dipped and dipped. They hold his wrists, as if
displaying his span, a large bird
slung from its heavy wing tips,
and the handsome young man goes on stabbing
and smiling, and the other sits on the ground
holding the dead arm like a leash, smiling.
9. Free Shoes
The pairs of shoes stand in rows,
polished and jet, like coffins for small pets,
lined with off-white. Evacuated children
sit in rows eyeing the pairs,
child after child after child, no parents
anywhere near. When it’s their turn,
they get a pair of new shoes
and the old ones are taken away.
Of course it is kind of the nice people
to give them the shoes. Of course it is better
to be here in the country, not there where the buildings
explode and hurl down pieces of children.
Of course, of course. This life that has been
given them like a task! This life, this
black bright narrow unbroken-in shoe.
10. The Body-Sniffers
Eventually, they found the people
who could tell by the smell whether or not
someone was alive in the ruins. They would crouch,
move their heads above holes in the rubble,
and after a while they’d say Yes, there is something,
someone. They’d inhale some more,
lying flat on the planks, the odor
trickling up, into their brains, and
sometimes they’d say, It’s too late, here.
Other times the blood was still flowing and
then the large beams would be hoisted, the
pipes cut, the bricks lifted,
foot by foot they’d go down and the sniffer would
say, Keep going, someone’s there! They’d dig day and
night without sleep to see the eyelids
flutter, to smell the fresh, dissolved salt.
11. His Crew
Burning, he kept the plane up
long enough for the crew to jump. He could
feel the thrust down, and the lift,
each time one of them leapt, full-term, the
parachutes unfolding and glistening, little
sacs of afterbirth. They drifted toward
what could be long lives, his fist
seared to the stick. When he’d felt all six
leave him, he put the nose down
and saw the earth coming up toward him,
green as a great basin of water
being lifted to his face.
12. The Body
The body lies, dropped down on the stones,
pieces of plastic and steel in it, it is
not breathing, it cannot make its
heart pump no matter how hard it tries.
It tries to move its left hand,
its left foot—its lips, tongue,
it cannot cry, it cannot feel,
the lovely one is gone,
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